


Perish

by overthetiber



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/M, Murder, Terrier Fancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 17:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overthetiber/pseuds/overthetiber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who killed wealthy publishing tycoon Cowboy Charlemagne? Spades Slick thinks he knows. Trouble is, so does Snowman. </p><p>Or: When committing murder, try not to leave your embarrassing reading material at the scene of the crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oryx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/gifts).



_A shot rang through the night._

_A man slumped to his knees and fell to the ground. Two dark figures watched him fall. Crimson blood trickled out from his body, staining the immaculate carpet._

_One figure fled. The other stayed, watching silently._

_Above, a lone cloud trailed across the vast, dark sky._

__

\--

“DEATH MOST SHOCKING,” read the headline of the Sunday evening _Exile Times_. On Monday morning, it was “SUICIDE MOST STUMPING.” By Wednesday, the headline was “ALLEGATIONS MOST BASELESS;” by Friday, “INQUIRY MOST THOROUGH.” One week from the day Cowboy Charlemagne, a wealthy and popular publishing tycoon known to the public as the White King (though he bore no relation to that long-forgotten monarch), was found dead in his lavish apartments, the headline of the Sunday morning _Exile Times_ read “MURDER MOST FOUL.”

Kings, as a rule, are rarely found without Queens. Cowboy Charlemagne had been no exception. His fiancée, a youngish Prospitian carapace of small frame and gentle temperament, underwent all the usual mourning rituals: releasing press statements, requesting privacy from reporters, being investigated as a prime suspect in his murder. What made Spades Slick knock over his bowl of grubflakes that Sunday was a photograph of the grieving lady—or, more specifically, a woman photographed standing next to the grieving lady. This particular woman had not been seen in over three perigees, even with the aid of advanced surveillance. Though she appeared in the newspaper disguised in a sensible suit and veiled hat, the confidence in her bearing was unmistakable. Sn **o** wman had re-emerged.

Slick was a man who lived in the moment. As such, he experienced a knee-jerk reaction to Sn **o** wman’s unexpected newspaper appearance, and knocked his bowl of grubflakes to the right without considering that Diamonds Droog sat there. Droog, absorbed in a men’s clothing ad, did not notice the flying grubflakes in time to dodge. When Hearts Boxcars arrived on the scene and slipped in the splattered lusus milk, spraining his ankle, the two had progressed from blows to harder blows. 

Luckily, Clubs Deuce got home from shopping just a few minutes later and distracted everyone by dropping a carton of eggs. The stab wounds, cigarette burns, and other injuries, Boxcars’ sprain included, were soon dressed and bandaged as befitted them. Droog put on a fresh suit and regained his composure. Slick stabbed the table a few times. Deuce went out to buy new eggs. By the time he returned, the slapstick atmosphere had dissipated and everyone could go back to being hardboiled again—including the eggs, although they had been raw before. Even the toughest gangsters have to eat.

Boxcars, after darting a covetous glance at the eggs boiling on the cooktop, proposed that they drop by the nightclub and see if they could drub up some answers.

Droog said nah. Picture was in the paper; she already knew they knew. Best thing to do was play it cool until trouble showed up. Besides, it was a Sunday. Nightclub was closed.

Deuce wondered what reason the Felt would have for bumping off Charlemagne. Droog thought the wife probably killed him and this was blackmail. Boxcars considered it must have been a hefty sum indeed to necessitate Sn **o** wman’s involvement. Slick made no comment.

Deuce suggested that they drop by the nightclub tomorrow night anyway. Droog agreed. Boxcars found no issue with this suggestion. What about Slick, what did he think? Slick thought you bunch of horny imbeciles could fuck off, thanks. He was leaving. He was a busy man. Had stuff to do, places to go, important business to attend to. He built this city, you know. Shut up, Droog.

\--

_He sees the gleam of a black carapace just before she fires. Her finger is steady on the trigger. In one hand, Slick clutches a clean knife; in the other, a worn magazine. Cowboy Charlemagne crumples between them._

_Then he doesn’t see much of anything, besides the rungs of the fire escape and eventually the pavement under his feet._

_He’s four blocks away before he realizes he’s no longer holding the copy of_ Terrier Fancy _._

\--

Boonbucks don’t grow on trees, even if the trees are planted by wealthy and popular publishing tycoons. Some ventures just stop being profitable, and then it’s time for them to end. _Terrier Fancy_ was one of these ventures. At least, this was the explanation that Cowboy Charlemagne had attempted to present to an enraged Spades Slick, moments before Slick stabbed him in the chest.

It would be exceedingly humiliating to admit to anyone—let alone his…well, we’re not going there, let’s just say Sn **o** wman—that he’d attempted to kill a man over the discontinued publication of an alternative lifestyle magazine. (Inasmuch as terrier fancying constituted an alternative lifestyle.) And Slick had no intention of doing so. That was why he was going to break into Charlemagne’s apartment and try to retrieve the damning publication. It was almost definitely still lying around somewhere. Despite what the _Exile Times_ claimed, the police here were not that thorough. 

After nightfall, it was simple enough to do what he had done before: sneak into the building, hide in a janitorial closet, and break into the apartment a few doors down while the lone security guard left to use the restroom. This being a high-falutin’ hoity-toity rich people apartment building, almost every apartment had a balcony. Slick merely climbed from each to each, stabbing the mortar in between the weird is-it-living-or-is-it-stone Alternian bricks when he felt an extra handhold was necessary.

Charlemagne’s apartment was quiet. Too quiet, in fact. The shelves in the living room had been searched, and there were piles of papers all over the floor. No telling whether this haystack’s dismemberment would help him find his needle.

He was contemplating how many papers could fit on the blade of his knife and any ways this might impede his escape when she stepped into the room. Sn **o** wman.

She looked revoltingly beautiful. The curves of her waist were nauseating. The way her mouth moved was hypnotically disgusting, as was the manner in which she removed a gun from her jacket and casually asked Charlemagne’s fiancée to come into the living room.

Slick had just enough time to grab a box of papers off the floor before leaping onto the fire escape and making a mad dash for the street.

\--

Hunched over his desk, adrenaline (or its carapacian equivalent) still cycling through his autonomic nervous system (or its carapacian equivalent), Slick finally examined the papers. _Terrier Fancy_ , unfortunately, was missing--not that there was any way in hell he was going back for it now. There was a folder of magazine clippings, mostly pictures of hats. A much larger folder...what's this? A pile of rejection slips, tucked away in the folder. Behind them, a mountain of documents. Unreadable scrawl of a cover letter. Many cover letters. Drafts of short stories? Something? Written in all caps, punctuated occasionally by unnecessary periods. And…a child's illustration?

On the back of the illustration, in the same childish handwriting:

**PUBLISH. OR PERISH.**

\--

_The White King’s fiancée is cleared of all charges after the police receive an anonymous letter confessing to the murder. Her bodyguard, a mysterious Dersite exile who began working for her just under three perigees previously, quits a few days later._

_On his next birthday, an unknown benefactor renews Slick's subscription to_ Terrier Fancy _._

**Author's Note:**

> According to Wikipedia's [list of playing-card nicknames](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_playing-card_nicknames), kings are sometimes referred to as "cowboys" and the King of Hearts as "Charlemagne." I wanted to refer back to Jack Noir's murder of the White King and Queen while also sort of adhering to canon continuity; also, "Cowboy Charlemagne" is a really neat name.


End file.
